


The Surrogate

by Pink_Dalek



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Gen, Morse feels like a stray cat sometimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-30 20:07:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10884027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_Dalek/pseuds/Pink_Dalek
Summary: This prompt was right up my alley: http://morseverse.dreamwidth.org/1519.html?thread=11247#cmt11247 : With Sam in the army and Joan missing, Morse moves in with the Thursdays. I started this after seeing the third season when it aired here in the US last summer, so since this is pre-season four, it doesn't follow S4 canon. Morse's exam isn't MIA, and Joan did what I'd do if I was her age in 1967 and living in England. Two words: Carnaby Street.





	The Surrogate

Note: Win's coat made from an old coverlet actually existed, and it was an amazingly creative example of turning 'make do and mend' into something both practical and beautiful: http://www.gettyimages.ie/detail/news-photo/woman-wearing-a-coat-made-from-a-white-candlewick-bedpread-news-photo/2696570?#woman-wearing-a-coat-made-from-a-white-candlewick-bedpread-as-part-of-picture-id2696570 She even looks like a younger Win.

 

Morse and Thursday stared helplessly at each other for a long minute in the pale light of dawn. "I-- I tried to get her to stay."

"When her mind's made up, there's no stopping her. Takes after her mum that way."

And her dad, Morse thought.

"You might as well come in. Have a cuppa, at least. Mrs. Thursday's used to cooking for four, so there'll be plenty."

"She's cooking-- after this?"

"Of course. Life goes on, family needs to be fed. Knowing her, she'll have polished everything in the house by teatime. Says it settles her mind."

Morse followed him into the house. "Good morning, Mrs. Thursday." She was standing in the kitchen doorway, looking both stricken and hopeful.

"You're early, Morse."

"I-- I was waiting outside. Keeping an eye on things."

"He talked to Joan."

"Did she say where she was going?"

"No, ma'am."

"She'll send a postcard once she's settled," Fred said hopefully, sounding surer than he felt. "Or give us a ring."

"Of course she will, Mrs. Thursday. She knows you'll worry."

"Might even come back soon. Probably just needs to clear her head a bit."

Win nodded, not believing them but wanting them to think they'd helped. In her experience, men liked being helpful in a crisis and feeling like they were solving a problem.

"Shall I put the kettle on for you?"

"Yes, Fred. Then I'll start toast and boil a few eggs. Are you staying to breakfast, Morse?"

"I wouldn't want to impose-- "

"It's not." Her wan smile held a ghost of its usual warmth. "Besides, I'm used to buying for four. Fred and I won't get through all the eggs by ourselves before they go off. Stay. Are you going to the station, Fred?"

"I should. Mr. Bright has planned a debriefing after yesterday's events."

"I'll run you in, sir. I'll need to stop at mine to change on the way. I can hardly arrive at work in yesterday's clothes and a pullover."

When they sat down to breakfast, there was an extra egg and serving of toast. "In case Joan reached the station and changed her mind," Win explained. "She used to run away from time to time as a child. The first was after Sam was born. She got it into her head that we didn't want her anymore, and made it to the end of our lane before she came back. She usually went to the nearest friend's house after that, and the mum would ring to let us know where she was."

"She always came back when she was hungry, or tired, or had gotten whatever it was out of her system," Fred added. "Funny thing was, she stopped when she was a teenager, just when you'd expect it to get worse."

Towards the end of the meal, Win pressed the second egg and the rest of the toast on Morse. "No need to let it go to waste, and you're thin as a shadow."

When they left Win handed Fred his sandwich, and a second one to Morse. "She's been making three sandwiches every day for years," Fred murmured in Morse's ear as they left. "Going down to one just hammers it home to her the nest's empty. Humor her?"

Thinking about the sad state of his bank account, Morse nodded. "Ham and tomato."

"Like the sun on its path. That's my Win."

*****

With the events at the Wessex Bank, Bright had fought hard to get Thursday off suspension. "He has his faults, but he's a good detective and my best DI. I've lost DS Jakes, DS Strange is new to the position, and the rest are detective constables," he told the Chief Constable.

He prevailed in the end, and told Thursday in a tete-a-tete before the general debriefing. "But behave yourself," he said sternly. "You can ill afford another scene like the other day. And I glossed over yesterday's events in my report. You're not the only father in this room, and after all, I was the one who liberated your gun."

"Thank you, sir."

"Young Morse passed his exam with flying colors. One of the highest scores in the history of the OCP. I don't wish to step on any toes, but we can't afford two sergeants on days in the CID, and I know he's a protege of yours. I've spoken to DS Strange about becoming my assistant. He could make a fine administrator someday, with the right training. Morse doesn't strike me as the administrative type."

Thursday snorted a laugh. "No sir. Lad'd be right miserable. He's better where he is."

"That's what I thought. We'll leave him in CID as your bagman, officially this time."

"I'll let him know, sir."

*****

When Morse arrived at the Thursdays' the next morning, only swearing he'd already had cereal deterred Win, although she fussed that it wasn't a proper breakfast, he needed protein, and he should take a boiled egg for elevensies. And there was a second sandwich again. Fred had to work not to laugh at the look on his bagman's face as Win maternally steamrolled him.

Strange wasn't starting his new position until Monday. "What've you got there, matey?"

"Mrs. Thursday insisted on giving me a sandwich and a boiled egg."

"Used to feeding young ones, she is. My mum's the same way. Once we were all grown, she got a part-time job as a dinner lady at the primary school in our neighborhood. Gives her a bit of extra money, lets her feed people to her heart's content, and she mums the kiddies who seem to need it. Some of those poor little blighters have it rough."

"Any plans for this Sunday?" Fred asked on the drive home that evening.

"Not really, why?"

"Mrs. Thursday's invited you to Sunday dinner. Roast joint, potatoes, fresh veg. If you're interested."

Morse thought of the two of them sharing a meal meant for four in that too-quiet house, and nodded. Joan had asked him to take care of them, after all.

Come Sunday, Fred had a football match on the telly. Morse finished his crossword, then wandered into the kitchen to see if Win needed any help. "Well, if you insist-- "

"I do."

"You can peel the potatoes for me."

He found himself wearing Fred's dishwashing apron while he peeled and sliced the potatoes. The house smelled divine with dinner cooking, and she'd baked a strawberry tart for afters that made his mouth water.

Morse did his best to be a cheerful diversion over the meal, and was sent home with a generous packet of leftovers.

*****

It became habit: every weekday morning Morse received a sandwich and often a boiled egg, if Win hadn't fed him breakfast first. On Saturdays, Fred took him to the chippy by the station. And Sunday dinner with the Thursdays was becoming the norm, with leftovers he could easily stretch for Monday and Tuesday suppers.

Joan sent him a postcard. She'd gotten a job at a shop on Carnaby Street and was living at a women's hostel. A vision of her kitted out in the latest London fashions flitted through his mind as he read. She sent a letter to her parents at the same time, giving a bit more detail, which brightened both of them somewhat. Still, when Morse picked up Fred every morning, the Thursday house was too quiet. Win's blue eyes held the same sadness and self-recrimination he'd seen in Joan's that last morning. He reproached himself, wishing he'd known what to say, what to do, to make her stay. He'd always been tongue-tied around her.

*****

Fred had stopped by Morse's basement flat with a bottle of scotch for a ponder over a string of shop robberies when the phone rang. Morse excused himself to answer it, speaking quietly on the far side of the small room.

"I told you in my last letter, Gwen: I can't send you anything until my next paycheck. I've my own rent to pay this week." His face was tight with frustration, lips thinned in controlled anger. "I can't just magic money out of thin air! I'm paying off Dad's debts too, remember?" Fred could hear the faint, querulous tone on other end of the line. "I can't have any more overdrafts or they'll close my account. You'll just have to get by-- it's what I'm doing. Tell Joyce hello from me. Goodbye, Gwen." He hung up, drawing a deep breath and sighing it out before returning to his chair.

"Family troubles?"

Morse rubbed his forehead. "I've been helping out my stepmother and sister since my dad died. He left behind nothing but debt."

"No life insurance?"

Morse snorted. "That was for the poshos, he always said."

"I'm hardly posh, and I've got a policy. No way I'm leaving my Win in the lurch, even though she'll have my pension."

"He couldn't have afforded it anyway. Although, with the money he spent on the horses, he could have done, and left Gwen and Joycie in better shape besides. I've been paying off his turf accountant-- he was in debt up to his ears by the end."

"Anything I can do to help?"

"No, but thank you. The pay rise that came with my DS helped out quite a bit, at least." Morse sighed wearily. "Anyway, I was thinking that there might be a pattern -- " he was back to mulling over the case.

Fred filed the information away to think about later. The next day, he talked it over with Win. When Morse arrived for Sunday dinner, they had a proposition for him.

"The house is just so empty and quiet with Sam and Joan gone," Win began, once they'd finished a blackberry tart, which happened to be one of Morse's favorites. They'd had wine with the meal, which was unusual. Morse was comfortably full and relaxed, sitting back in his chair, finishing off his second glass of wine.

"Win and I had an idea. Our house is too empty these days, so we were wondering if-- "

"If you'd like to move into Sam's old room," Win burst out.

"I beg your pardon?" Morse was instantly alert.

"Save us both time and hassle in the mornings," Fred pointed out reasonably, shooting Win a quick quelling look. 'We have to ease him into it or he'll bolt,' he'd warned her. 'Lad has his pride and likes his independence, and he's had bad experiences with his own family.' "You won't have to get up so early to sign out the car. We'll just bring it on home with us at night. Give you a chance at a proper breakfast of a morning."

"But what about Sam?"

"We've just had a letter," Win said, glowing with pride. "They're sending him to West Berlin once he finishes training."

"He's looking forward to beer gardens and frauleins," Fred added. "We'll be lucky to get him back on leave. Might as well put the room to use."

"We won't expect you to keep to a curfew or keep tabs on you. You're a grown man, after all," Win reassured Morse.

"But what-- I mean-- you could rent out the room and make a bit of cash."

"And have a stranger in the house? Absolutely not!" Fred was adamant. "If it's rent you're worried about, look after the garden and pitch a bit into the gas and electric jars, and we'll call it even. I had Sam doing the garden. I can't do much without either wearing myself out or hurting my back; either way, I spend the next day on the sofa. It'll give you a chance to get a bit ahead, take care of what your dad left, and still put something aside for a rainy day, and a nicer flat when you're sick of us. That basement's cool in the summer, but come winter it'll be damp and drafty. Last thing I need is my bagman out with pneumonia."

"Well-- er--"

"At least think about it," Win urged gently. "There's no hurry to decide."

Back at his flat that night (he had been worrying about what it would be like during a cold, wet Oxford winter), Morse heartily wished he had Joan's phone number, or at least an address. _You need to come home right now! Your parents are trying to take me in like a stray cat!_ He had a mad idea of taking a train down to London and walking Carnaby Street until he found the shop she was working in and begging-- possibly on bended knee-- for her to return to Oxford. Morse shook his head, remembering how prickly she could be. He wondered if Mrs. Thursday had those moments, and if Fred fled for his life before them, too. Given the right circumstances, Joan could probably be a force of nature.

He decided to sleep on it. He'd have better luck formulating a refusal after a night's rest. But his traitorous brain had other ideas, and he woke thinking what a good idea living with the Thursdays would be. Of course, some of that could be waking at six AM to a drizzly morning in a freezing basement flat with the building's boiler shut off for the summer, knowing that he had to get out of his warm bed and catch a bus to the station to sign out a car. He could get a whole extra hour of sleep if he was at Fred's house with the Jaguar outside, and with his night-owl tendencies, that would be lovely. Speaking of which--

"I'm not the easiest housemate, Mrs. Thursday. I tend to stay up too late, and there are nights I can't sleep at all," he told her when he arrived at the house.

"That's no trouble, dear. Fred gets the same way. I keep some Horlicks in the kitchen."

"I've been told I'm grumpy in the mornings." _Grumpy as anything unless you've been well-shagged the night before_ , Monica had told him saucily. He'd blushed and been tongue-tied, not thinking of an answer until after she'd left for work. _Guess you've got your work cut out for you, then_ , he should have said.

"I doubt you could be worse than Joan. We learned not to talk to her until she'd had her first cuppa."

"Morning, Morse." Fred was coming downstairs tying his necktie.

"Morning, sir."

"Here are your sandwiches." Monday meant cheese and pickle. Win leaned in for a kiss from Fred.

When he dropped Fred off at the end of the day, Fred took him around to see the back garden and the shed. The mower and shears were in need of sharpening. Morse had looked after the garden at home until he'd left for Oxford. Sharpening tools was easy, and the Thursday garden was smaller and better tended to begin with.

The next day their string of shop robberies finally culminated in a foot chase after the suspect. Which meant Morse was doing the running, Fred lumbering behind like a draft horse trying to keep up with thoroughbreds. The suspect leapt onto a chain-link fence and Morse went after him, hearing his clothing tear on the fence and hoping it wasn't a vital part of his trousers. He grabbed the other man, who was shorter but stockier, and they tumbled to the ground with a thud that left them both winded for a moment.

"Tha's police brutality, tha' is!" was the first thing out of the thief's mouth.

"I broke your fall!" Morse couldn't help sounding affronted. "If you don't like running from the police, perhaps you should consider an honest line of work," he added sardonically.

"Work's for suckers."

Fred had arrived. "Up you get," he told the suspect gruffly. "All right, Morse?"

"Just a bit winded." Once the thief was cuffed, Fred held out a hand to help Morse up. "And I tore something on my clothing."

"Better that, than tearing something in yourself." Thursday marched the thief back to the Jaguar while Morse took a moment to dust himself off, look around to make sure he hadn't lost anything, and give his clothes a quick check. He huffed with exasperation when he found a rip in the lining of his suit jacket. It was the fabric, not a seam; the cleaners would charge extra to repair it, if they even could.

Once the thief was booked in, Fred looked at the clock. "Nearly gone five. Let's call it a day. Buy you a pint at the Flag?"

It sounded wonderful. Morse was starting to feel sore spots and knew he was going to be stiff and bruised by morning. At least it wasn't as bad as falling through a rotten bit of floor to the level below. Afterward, Fred drove them home.

Win took one look at Morse and hustled him into the house. "You look like you've had a hard day, dear."

"Chased down a suspect and pulled him off a fence," Fred explained. "Took a fall in the process."

"Sit down. I'll fetch you some stout."

"I bought him an ale on the way home, pet. Tore his suit, too. Jacket lining, didn't you say, Morse?"

"I'll take a look at it for you, dear. I've done plenty of mending over the years, between the war, Fred's work, and Sam being a typical boy."

"That's not nec-- "

"And you're staying to dinner. Stew and dumplings. You can go upstairs to wash up. There are extra flannels in the bathroom cupboard." Win's tone brooked no refusal. Morse shrugged out of his suit jacket and went upstairs to wash his face and hands.

While dinner finished cooking, Win fetched her sewing basket, deftly picked apart the lining hem around the tear, and started repairing it, fingers moving nimbly.

"She made a winter coat out of an old coverlet during the war," Fred told Morse, voice full of pride. "It was one of the prettiest coats I've ever seen."

Win shrugged. "Make do and mend. We all had to be resourceful."

After dinner, she finished the repair while they watched The Saint in the lounge. "With the kids gone, I'm going to miss scratching my head over Top of the Pops every week," Fred admitted

"Perhaps Morse likes it?"

Morse shook his head. "I mostly listen to classical music and opera, although I kept my mum's old records. She loved Glenn Miller and Benny Goodman. Listening to them reminds me of when she was alive. Pop music, though? I've tried, but it's just not my cup of tea."

"There. One jacket, almost as good as new."

Morse examined the neat stitches. "I can barely see where it was mended."

"If it loosens, I've probably something similar in my scrap bag to patch it with, but we'll try this way first."

"Thank you so much, Mrs. Thursday."

"It was nothing, dear."

Morse was tired, full of a good dinner, and relaxed. He felt his eyelids getting heavy and stifled a yawn. "I should be getting back to my flat."

"I'll run you home and keep the car. You can just take the bus here tomorrow. The 17 stops at the end of our street."

"Thank you, sir."

On the drive, Morse drew a deep breath. "Are you sure I wouldn't be in the way? Living at your house?"

"Not at all, lad. We'd love to have you. Thinking of taking us up on our offer?"

"It's quite appealing."

"You're more than welcome. Win will try to mother you, of course."

"Of course." Morse smiled. "I haven't been mothered since I was twelve," he admitted quietly.

"Sam and Joan have been teaching her how to do it without being smothering the last few years."

*****

Morse gave notice to his landlord the next day. Two weeks later, all his worldly goods packed into boxes and suitcases, he moved everything to the boot and back seat of the Jaguar, and Fred drove him to the house.

Sam's old room was a blank slate with light-blue walls, one wallpapered in a soft plaid of light blues and yellow on white, contrasting with the dark wood bedstead, bookshelves, bureau, and desk. Sam's things had been packed away in the cellar for the time being. A large window above the front door looked out over the street. It didn't take long to unpack: books and records on the shelves, clothes in the bureau and cupboard, odds and ends set about the room. Things like kitchen utensils and dishes were packed up, neatly labeled for once, and had joined Sam's boxes. He carried some kitchen supplies into the kitchen.

"I've got a few things: a box of PG Tips and most of a pack of digestives, half a loaf of bread, things like that. I didn't want them to go to waste." 

"Go ahead and put them in the cupboards, dear. You know where everything goes."

"Now that I live here, you can't fuss when I do the washing up. I'm not a guest any longer."

Win smiled at him. "I suppose. But you'll have to trade off with Fred; I've just got him back in the habit of doing it. It was the kids' job for years."

"If the lad wants to do the washing up, I say let him," Fred chipped in cheerfully from the kitchen doorway.

"It seems only fair, after you've made tea for us. And you're not letting me pay rent."

"Never made Joan pay it after she was working. And you have to be cheaper to feed than Sam was. We could hardly keep food in the house once he hit his teens," Fred told him.

Settling into the household was easier than Morse had expected. On work days he got up first, to get in and out of the bathroom before anyone else needed it. It still gave him nearly an extra hour's sleep. On chilly mornings he went downstairs first, to turn on the heat so Win didn't have to get up to a cold house. While he was dressing in his room, Win got up, dressed, and went downstairs to start breakfast. By the time he and Fred went downstairs, there was tea and a hot breakfast waiting for them. They left with sandwiches, talking about current cases on the way to the station. It was an almost relaxing morning routine compared with what Morse was used to.

Saturday shifts were rotated among the CID staff, and when he had Saturday off while Fred worked, Morse insisted on going along with Win to help with the shopping, pushing the trolley and lugging the bags home for her.

"They're out of corned beef. Do you like bloater paste, dear?"

Morse winced. "If Fred likes it, get a jar. I can always make myself a cheese and pickle sandwich." 

"What about marmite?"

"My stepmother used to feed Joyce and me marmite sandwiches most days." It was like a jar of unhappy memories to him now. He wandered further along the aisle, spotting the jars of chocolate spread.

Win saw him lingering. He had a well-hidden sweet tooth, but she'd seen him picking toffees from the dish of sweets in the lounge. "Go ahead and get a jar. We'll have a little splurge." Other than that he was well-behaved, sticking to her shopping list. He was better than Fred or Sam, who were always distracted by crisps or sweets or biscuits and tried to sneak them into the trolley when her back was turned.

Morse kept the garden tidy, the grass mowed every weekend and any weeding and pruning it needed done promptly, the patio and walkways swept. He scrubbed up the patio set for them and had volunteered to repaint the faded shed. 

Win started sending his suits to the same cleaners who took care of Fred's, picking them up when she ran her mid-week errands. She'd also started sending Fred's shirts along years before, and added Morse's shirts to the pile. It didn't cost much more, and he discovered he liked having shirts more neatly pressed than he could manage.

His budget had eased considerably, and he was making real progress on his father's debts. He'd just paid off the funeral when he'd moved in, and the gambling debts were soon at the halfway point. He was setting aside a sum for winter heating to send along to Joyce in October, and his own savings were growing. He also contributed to the three coin jars in the Thursdays' kitchen: gas, electric, and other bills that came up.

Win struck a careful balance between mothering and smothering, and he quite liked being looked after. He filled out a bit on regular meals, and when he had a sleepless night fretting over a case or worrying about his sister, she got out the Horlicks. Sometimes he and Fred were both sleepless, usually over a case, and Fred doctored it with a bit of brandy. But Morse's bed was far more comfortable than what he was used to, and he usually slept well.

Morse started encouraging Fred and Win to take Saturday evenings for themselves, going out to supper and perhaps a film. He often went out too, joining Strange at a pub for a meal and drinks. Other times he puttered around the house on Saturday evenings, putting together a quick supper and spending the evening with a book and his music.

The phone rang one Saturday afternoon. Win was about to hang out the washing in the back garden, and Morse was carrying the laundry basket to her. "Thursday residence."

"Who is this? You're not Dad."

"Miss Thursday?"

"Morse? What are you doing there? Are Mum and Dad okay?"

"They're fine. They convinced me to take Sam's old room. I've been living here since early July. How are you?"

"Oh, doing okay. Still working in the shop. London's a mad place. Is Mum there?"

"I'll get her for you. Your dad's working today."

While Win talked to Joan in the house Morse stayed out in the back garden, pinning up bedsheets to be useful.

"Thank you, dear."

"How is she?"

"She tried to put a cheerful face on, but she's not happy. I can tell."

"Is she coming back?"

"She said no."

"I'm sorry. I should have said something more to her that last morning."

"I doubt there was anything you could have said. She's as stubborn as her dad."

Fred took Win out to supper that night. Strange had a date, and Morse didn't feel like going out, so he fixed a cheese toastie before going upstairs to choose a record for the hi-fi in the lounge. He hesitated on the threshold of Joan's room, next to his. Two of the walls were painted soft pink, while the other two were papered in a small floral pattern. The room was as she'd left it, Win only dusting and vacuuming when she tidied the upstairs. There were photos of family and friends on the desk and bookshelves, the shelves held some old schoolbooks along with paperback novels and books of poetry and a pile of magazines. Her bureau had a small collection of makeup and perfumes sitting on a mirrored tray, and photos and little mementos were tucked into the frame of the mirror hanging above it. A faded doll and a couple of old stuffed animals sat among the pillows on her bed. All in all, it was a girl's room mishmashed with that of a young woman.

Morse sighed. He missed her too. He missed her quick wit, her wry sense of humor, and her smile. He missed the lost possibilities. Nothing like realizing the truth too late.

In the end, he chose the Moonlight Sonata.

*****

Morse's birthday fell on a Friday. He hadn't made any plans, but he should have known Win wouldn't let the day go unmarked. It was late September, the trees a blaze of color and the smell of wood smoke in the air, when he parked the Jaguar in the driveway at dusk. In the house his favorite meal was cooking, and a cheerily wrapped package sat at his usual spot on the sofa.

"You didn't have to do anything."

"We wanted to," she told him. "There's a cake in the kitchen as well."

Chocolate. Morse carefully brushed a fingertip along the edge where the icing met the plate and tasted it. Win Thursday really was an amazing cook. 

"And you'd better not be tasting the icing," she called out.

How did she know? Morse froze, about to steal another dab of icing, and fled the kitchen.

The Thursdays had bought a new dressing gown to replace his threadbare one. "It's getting colder," Win explained when he unwrapped it.

"You really didn't have to do any of this." It was the nicest birthday he'd had in years.

*****

In October, Sam called Morse from Berlin. "I need your help. I bought the most amazing clock for Mum and Pop's anniversary, but I don't want them to see it."

Morse thought for a moment. "I'm not sure if I can have it shipped to the station. Hang on, I've an idea. Let me grab my address book from upstairs." He returned to the phone while paging through the little dark-green book. "I'll give you Shirley Trewlove's address, and let her know. We can hide it there until their anniversary."

"Thanks, mate! I knew I could count on you. Thanks for looking after Mum and Pop, by the way. Mum used to always be the first one up to turn on the furnace and start breakfast. She mentioned in her last letter you've been starting the furnace, and how much she likes waking up to a warm house. She said you've been looking after the garden and helping with the shopping, too."

"I do what I can. I worry about imposing on them."

"Nah, they're happy to have you. The house would be too quiet otherwise. I had a row with Joan when I found out she'd left right after I did. Spent a good chunk of cash ringing her long distance to shout at her." 

"She was in bad shape after the bank heist."

"I don't doubt it. But Mum and Pop would have done their best to help her through it. Instead, she's off in some hole in London."

"Wait-- you have her phone number?" Joan still hadn't given her parents or Morse her phone number or address.

"Yeah. She made me swear not to share it, though. Not yet. I don't agree with her choices, but she's my sis. I'll always do my best to do right by her."

"I know what that's like. I do whatever I can to look after my sister."

At the station, Morse approached WPC Trewlove. "Sam Thursday rang me yesterday. He found some sort of fancy German clock for his parents' anniversary, and needs someone here to receive it. I gave him your address. I know I should have asked first, but he was calling from Berlin, and I didn't know who else might want to help."

Shirley's eyes lit up. "That's okay. We can hide it at my place until their anniversary. Will it need to be wrapped?"

"I didn't ask."

"If it does, I'll pick out some paper, and my flatmate makes beautiful bows for packages. I'll sneak it in a day or two ahead of time in a plain bag, and we can stow it under your desk or something. What year anniversary is it for them?"

"Twenty-sixth, I think? They had a silver anniversary do last year."

Trewlove let him know when the package arrived, and he stopped by the flat she shared with another WPC for a look. It was hand-painted porcelain and gold plating, and it was lovely. "I'll send Sam a postcard that it arrived safely," Morse told her.

"I'll pick out paper and ribbon, and have Sherrie make a bow for it. Oh, he put a card for them in here, too."

Getting the clock into the station without Fred noticing took some doing, even though it was hidden in a plain brown shopping bag. It was wrapped in lovely light-blue paper with a fluffy bow of silver ribbon, Sam's card securely sellotaped under the bow. Then Morse had to think of a way to get it home. A call from Max DeBryn requesting his attendance at an autopsy gave him an idea.

"I'm on my way. Give me an extra ten minutes, though. I need to sneak Sam Thursday's anniversary gift for Fred and Win into the house. Fred's meeting with Bright, and Win's having lunch with a friend, so it's the perfect time." Morse didn't relax until the package was safely hidden in his cupboard behind his suits and dressing gown.

The night before Fred and Win's anniversary he waited until they'd gone to bed, lingering over the evening paper, then sneaked the package down to the dining table. He placed a second card next to it, from Joan. She'd called him at the station, and between the two of them they'd put together an evening at the Orchid Room. Morse made the reservations and both of them chipped in to pre-pay for the meal and a good bottle of wine, Morse leaving his contact information to cover anything that ran over, although the owner, finding out the circumstances, had put together a suggested menu and quoted him a price.

He came downstairs the next morning to a big hug from Win. "You've been busy," Fred observed drily.

"Your kids have been busy. I just helped."

*****

By December, Oxford was blanketed in snow. Win had nursed Morse through a bad cold, feeding him chicken soup and vitamin pills and insisting he rest. He'd received a postcard from Jakes, saying that Hope had delivered a baby girl they'd named Emily Anne, but were calling her Emma. He'd run into a former neighbor at the post office, who'd told him the pipes in his old basement flat had frozen solid. He turned on the heat with a bit of extra relief the following morning.

He and Fred helped Win decorate the house for Christmas, putting up lights and greenery and bringing in the tree. For Christmas, he bought Joyce a couple of records she wanted, and helped her pay for a gift she'd picked out for Gwen. His Christmas gift to himself had been sending the final check to his father's old bookmaker-- all of Cyril Morse's debts were finally paid. He was at a loss for Christmas gifts for Fred and Win, though.

"I've tried asking, but they always say there's nothing they want," he grumbled to Strange over one of their Saturday night pub dinners.

"That's parents for you. Mum always says we're all well and safe, and that's all she could ever want."

"So what are you doing for her?"

"Last year, we kids chipped in on having a cleaner come in to do the spring cleaning for her. But Mum about ran herself ragged trying to clean the house before the cleaner came. Said she wouldn't have a stranger thinking she was a bad housekeeper. We're thinking of taking her for a big day out this year instead. Pay for her to get her hair done, take her for a fancy lunch at the Randolph."

In the end, an idea came to Morse while he was mending a blown fuse during a frigid afternoon. Win came in from the cold, and he noticed her winter gloves, though carefully mended, were scarcely equal to the weather. That just left Fred. "I can't think of anything for Fred for Christmas," he confided to Win while he peeled potatoes for her. "He's given up the pipe, his hat and gloves are new, you knitted his scarf--"

"Slippers. The sole's coming off of one of them past mending. I'll give you his size."

Morse spent an hour shopping in Burridge's, starting with Win's gloves. "These are some of our warmest ones," the clerk handed him a soft black pair. "Leather, with a lambswool lining."

"These are perfect."

"What size does she take, sir?"

Morse froze for a moment. "Well, er-- her hands are about this much smaller than mine--" he drew a line down the outside of his hand with a fingertip-- "with long fingers, if that helps."

"That sounds like a seven. She can exchange them if they don't fit."

He found a cozy pair of slippers for Fred, then splurged on having the boxes gift-wrapped at the department store; his wrapping skills were clumsy at best.

Morse looked around the men's furnishings department once he'd finished his shopping. "Do you have lambswool-lined gloves?" he asked a clerk.

"Certainly, sir."

They were so warm, and it was like putting his hands in a cloud. He bit his lip. While he could spend money on Win and Fred with scarcely a second thought, he couldn't buy something so nice for himself.

The clerk saw his hesitance, along with the fluffy bows poking out of the large Burridge's shopping bag he carried. Young and neatly dressed but obviously not wealthy. "We have some lined in a lambswool blend that are nearly as warm and soft. They're only about half the price."

"Could I see those, please?" He'd been doing without, so anything would be an improvement. He bought those. "I'll wear them, thanks."

Out in the December cold, he found himself wishing he'd bought a scarf, too. The lovely one Monica had given him had been kept for evidence, but at this point it would have carried too much baggage anyway. That evening he slipped the shopping bag into his room without anyone noticing, then went downstairs to set the table for tea and help Win in the kitchen.

"Sam rang. He asked for socks," Win told him. "As many as we can send, in colors to go with his fatigues and uniforms. He doesn't think much of the ones the army supplied."

"I don't blame him. Berlin's probably freezing."

"I thought I'd pick some up at Marks and Spencer. Is there anything you need from there, dear?"

He desperately needed new pants, but he wasn't about to admit it. He'd pick some up on the way home from his Saturday half-day.

*****

The Saturday before Christmas dawned with a fresh coat of snow draped over Oxford. Thursday and Morse spent the morning solving a string of housebreakings, finishing just in time for the holiday to start. Win opened the door the moment she heard them stomping the snow from their shoes on the porch. "Joan rang from London. She's catching the one-thirty to Oxford, to spend Christmas with us!"

"We can pick her up after lunch," Fred told her.

Morse tried to stay home, feeling awkward, but Fred and Win wouldn't hear of it. "It's family. I don't want to be in the way."

"But you're family too, dear. Put on your coat."

"Win's right, lad."

Morse stood awkwardly next to Fred as they waited, trying to forget how he'd felt the day Joan left-- when he'd realized he was in love with her.

Win was the first to spot her. "Joan!"

He almost wouldn't have recognized her. Joan's hair was in a shoulder-length flip with a scarf tied in it; her doe-eyed makeup, paisley minidress and brightly-colored tights were the height of fashion. "Mum! Dad!" She was immediately enveloped in hugs.

"Let me look at you! You look like you walked out of a magazine!" Win enthused. "But you've lost weight, dear. You need feeding up."

Joan looked Morse up and down. "Hello, Morse."

"Miss Thursday." He bent to take her suitcases. "How long are you home for?"

"I'm off until the day after New Year's."

"What's it like? Carnaby Street?"

"New shops going in every month, it seems. I don't know how anyone keeps up. How've you been?"

"Well, thank you."

"Mum's been feeding you up. You look good."

"Oh, er-- thanks." Morse could feel the blush spreading across his face, down his throat, and across his chest. He didn't notice Joan's smile, with its tinge of fondness at his shyness.

Morse drove them home. Win and Joan were in the back, Fred in the passenger seat, both parents drinking Joan in with their eyes while she told them about London. "I've been living in a women's hotel, Dad. There's an absolute dragon managing the place-- more like a prison matron really."

"Good," Fred grumbled, Morse smothering a laugh as he caught Joan's expression in the mirror.

*****

Win exclaimed over Joan's wardrobe as she unpacked. Minidresses in psychedelic and geometric prints, bright jumpers and tights, sleek little skirts, gorgeous scarves. The dresser was scattered with Biba cosmetics. The skirts and dresses were too short, Win thought, but she loved the bright, playful colors. Their voices rang down the stairs like chimes as they chattered and laughed. Joan had brought several scarves she thought her mum might like, mostly cheery solid colors, but one bold graphic one also caught Win's eye.

"Take it, Mum."

"I couldn't. It's awfully bold."

"That's exactly why you should have it. Nothing wrong with being bold. Tie it to your purse for a start, or at your neck. Little steps, Mum."

Win came downstairs with the patterned scarf tied at the neck of her jumper, with subtly winged eyeliner and lashings of mascara, in a softer version of Joan's makeup. "She's trying to spruce me up a bit. No miniskirts, though. Haven't got the legs for them anymore."

"Mum, your legs are fine. The keep-fit classes are doing you a world of good." Joan edged past her to raid the tins of Christmas biscuits in the lounge. "You could raise your hems to just above your knee and not raise any eyebrows. Turn a few heads maybe."

"Your mum doesn't need to turn any heads," Fred grumbled from behind his newspaper.

*****

Joan tapped on Morse's half-open door that evening, not long after Fred and Win had retired for the night. "Mind if I come in?"

"Of course not." Morse was hanging up his suit, wearing pajamas and dressing gown, hair still damp from the shower.

Joan perched in the desk chair. "Looks different from when it was Sam's room," she said. There were framed opera and concert posters on the walls and the bookshelves were full of Morse's records and books. There was a picture postcard of Wyoming tucked into the mirror frame. On the dresser below stood a double frame, one side a black-and-white photo of a woman with a Forties hairstyle who looked much like Morse, the other a dark-haired young woman.

Morse followed her gaze. "My mum and my sister."

"You look a lot like your mum."

Morse was checking that day's shirt, giving it a sniff without thinking. Joan burst into musical laughter. "Looks like someone hasn't given up the sniff test."

Morse pinkened, looking abashed. "Old habit, I suppose." The shirt went into a basket for the cleaners next to his laundry hamper.

"It's okay. I do it, too. When you have to pay for your own washing and dry cleaning, you start being more careful." Joan drew a breath. "I want to tell you something, but you've got to promise not to tell Mum and Dad. I want to tell them myself."

Morse steeled himself. "You've met someone, and you're engaged."

"No, silly." She waved her left hand at him, waggling the bare ring finger. "Didn't you hear? There's a dragon running the women's hostel." Joan sighed, returning to a serious tone. "I've quit the shop. London is fun, but it's expensive. I was barely making ends meet, and I don't want to live like that forever. There were some old spinsters living at the hostel who've worked in shops for thirty years. And I don't want to marry some bloke just because I'm tired of being poor and alone. I saw a couple of women do that, too."

"So what will you do now?"

"I managed to save most of my earnings from the bank. I'd like to get a bookkeeper's certificate. Oxford's cheaper than London. I could get a place with another girl, work during the day, and go to class at night."

"Or you could move back here. They'd love to have you. You'd finish that much faster going to school full-time."

"I don't know. I rather like having my little bit of independence."

"Free meals. Your mum still makes sandwiches."

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I miss the sandwiches. Even the corned-beef ones."

"When will you tell them?"

"Probably Tuesday night, provided the school office is open on Boxing Day. When do you and Dad go back to work?"

"Tuesday." Morse hesitated. "If you like, I could look for a place for myself, if you'd rather stay here." 

"What? Don't be ridiculous! This is your home now, too. I promise I won't play pranks on you like I did Sam. Besides, Mum would be over the moon to have the house full again. Dad, too, though he won't admit it. They've enjoyed having you here."

"I felt like a stray cat they were trying to coax inside."

"I'm sorry. I never meant to leave you in my parents' clutches. Although, it does seem to have done you a world of good. You needed looking after, Morse." Joan stood. "Good night."

"Good night."

The next day was Christmas Eve. Morse woke from habit at his usual time and shivered despite his warm bed. He threw on his dressing gown and hurried downstairs to turn on the furnace, afterward stopping in the dining room to look out the window. Snow was falling, muffling the street and turning the neighborhood into a Christmas card scene. Then he returned upstairs to his warm bed and dozed for a couple of hours.

When he woke again, it was to faint sounds of activity downstairs. Everyone was still in pyjamas and dressing gowns, Win and Joan were in the kitchen chatting, Fred looking out at the snowfall. "Morning, Morse. Looks like we got another six inches overnight."

"It was falling steadily a little past seven. The house was freezing, so I turned on the heat and went back to bed."

After breakfast, Morse dressed warmly and went out to shovel and sand the front walk and pavement. Then he swept off the Jaguar as best he could before clearing the driveway.

"He's a ball of energy," Joan observed as she watched him over a mug of tea.

"You should have seen the garden during the summer. He kept it beautifully, then swept up all the leaves in the autumn," Win told her. "He keeps trying to make it up to us, since we won't charge him rent."

Morse had just finished putting away the snow shovel when something cold hit the back of his head. He turned around to find Joan giggling. He gave her a long look, then bent to pick up a handful of snow. It was perfect snowball consistency.

Fred looked out the front window five minutes later and started laughing.

"What is it, love?"

"The kids are having a snowball fight."

Win came into the dining room. "The neighbors' kids?"

"Morse and our Joan. And it looks like a draw. Wait, no, Morse made it behind the car. Oh! He's a good shot with a snowball, too."

"You started it!" They could hear him calling to Joan.

"Okay! Fine! I surrender!" Both of them were laughing and breathless.

Morse emerged to look around. "Now I've got to clear the walk again."

"I'll help."

Fred and Win returned to the lounge. When Win went looking to call Joan and Morse to lunch, she found they were still busy. "Now they've built a snowman."

They came in pink and laughing. "He's lopsided," Morse complained lightly as he helped Joan with her coat.

"We're not artists. And I haven't built a snowman in years."

"Did you have a good time, dears?"

"It was fun, Mum. And Morse doesn't whine when he's losing a snowball fight like Sam does. He's too busy plotting a counter-attack."

On Christmas morning something in Morse had snapped, or unwound, and instead of being the first up, he was the last. Fred had been the one to turn on the heat. 

"That's it. I'm getting him up." Joan headed upstairs. She knocked first. "Morse? Morse, it's nearly gone ten." No response. She eased open the door. "Morse?" He was dead to the world, snoring softly. "Morse?"

He stirred and lifted his head, rumpled and drowsy and confused. "Wha-- ?" He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Miss-- "

"If you call me Miss Thursday when we're living in the same house, I'm putting snow down your shirt."

He looked at his bedside clock. "What happened? I never sleep this late."

"Visions of sugarplums? Happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas."

Joan tugged at his arm. "Up you get. There are presents under the tree, and some of them have your name on them." Morse sat up with a groan. "You're not ill, are you?"

"No. Just groggy. Go on. I'll join you." He noticed Joan then, wearing a deep-red velveteen minidress with textured tights and little flat shoes that reminded him of ballet slippers. "You look very nice." 

"Thank you. I'll leave you to dress."

Morse joined them fifteen minutes later, shaved, combed, and wearing his burgundy jumper over a shirt and grey trousers.

The Thursday family Christmas tradition involved cocoa and cinnamon toast whilst unwrapping gifts. Joan had found lovely little things in London for everyone. Fred and Win were thrilled with Morse's gifts. Win had knitted a warm steel-blue scarf for Morse, choosing the color because it brought out his eyes. Sam had shipped a box of German chocolates from Berlin that they passed around. Morse had made a mad dash to central Oxford on Saturday afternoon while Joan visited with her parents, racking his brain for a gift idea and coming up blank.

"I knew anything I picked out at one of the boutiques wouldn't be as stylish as what you've got on Carnaby, so I ended up at Blackwell's," he told her sheepishly. "It's a gift certificate. I thought maybe a record-- " he trailed off awkwardly.

"Actually, it's a great idea. There's a new Dusty Springfield album I've wanted. We can go together, if you'd like."

"I-- I'd like that."

After a day of nibbling on sweets and biscuits before a Christmas dinner finished off with the traditional flaming pudding, Morse collapsed on the sofa next to Joan after he and Fred finished the washing up. "I don't think I can move anymore. How's your hair?"

Joan picked up a lock and examined the end. "Just scorched the bottom inch or so. I'll trim it before I go to bed. It's what I get for lighting the pudding with my hair down. Sam will be sorry he missed seeing me with my hair on fire and hearing Mum scream. Where is she?"

"Putting the kettle on," Fred told them, settling into his armchair. He took out a pipe and started prepping it.

"You're not supposed to smoke," Morse reminded him.

"If I can't have a pipe on Christmas, when can I?"

"We'll see what Win has to say."

"Frederick Albert Thursday! What are you doing?"

Joan started giggling. Morse just looked from Win to Fred and raised an eyebrow, which made Joan laugh even harder.

"It's just one pipe. For Christmas," Fred wheedled. "I've been good. It's been hard to give up cold turkey."

"One pipe, then. And then I'm hiding it with the others."

*****

Late on Tuesday afternoon, Morse was called out to a road accident. "Constable on scene says it's a single car involved and the driver's body smells of drink," he told Fred. "Go on home-- I'll catch the bus when I'm finished."

"At least he didn't hurt anyone else. Worst part of the holidays is the drunks making havoc," Thursday grumbled.

Morse arrived home a little after six to an ecstatic Win. "Joan's staying!" she exulted, taking his coat and hanging it up. "Starting classes to become a bookkeeper after New Year's. She's worried you'll think you have to move out, though. You don't, of course. You're family now, too."

Family. For the first time since his mum died the word meant good things to him. "I'll stay, at least for awhile. And I'll give you ample warning before I move out. I promise."


End file.
